“Is it the beginning of a poem?” By Sasha at her kitchen table

Thursday March 28, 2019
10:02am
5 minutes
The Poet Always Carries A Notebook
Mary Oliver

Forest walk. Billy runs ahead. His back legs are starting to go. Happens to German Shepherds. He still runs like he means it. Runs like he’ll live forever. Ferns are shooting out in every direction. I forgot for awhile that it’s spring. Stream under the second bridge is rushing. Stop and close my eyes and breathe in the damp sweetness. Feel Billy’s nose at my fingertips. Start a poem today. Just start. Haven’t written in too long. Fixing the leaky roof. Volunteering at the shelter. Banality. Bathes. Cuddles with Billy and falling asleep.

“somehow you are sacred,” by Julia on the 84

Wednesday December 12, 2018
3:54pm
5 minutes
The Third Treatise
Yara Farran

As I stand here mighty, bigger than you,
I feel the earth holding you up. When the sight of me existing without force
the way you sometimes don’t
makes you stop in your tracks, I see you then, and know you are good. This rain has marked its territory on my skin. I have married and left it now too many times to count. This is how I know about growing. About staying. About you.
Somehow, it is true, you are sacred even if you do not know the meaning of the word. And I know what it’s like to wait for my time to shoot upward; to shed my old season; to take the place of my mother.

“And we created a hybrid,” by Julia on D’s chair

Monday August 27, 2018
1:38am
5 minutes
Poetry Is The Song Of The People
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Altogether in the forest
I remember us walking in a line linked like breakfast sausages
It wasn’t cold or I had on a good coat, I can’t exactly recall. But Illiah was wearing a red rope around his neck with a hangy medalian. a piece of wood with a stamp on it maybe.
and as we gathered around the mother tree, Jara started to sing and we all started to sing too. as if we knew the song. as if our bones were already in tune.I remember feeling like warm water was being poured over my head, cascading down and blanketing my spirit. I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to wake up.

“the thin woods and across the highway” by Julia on Amanda’s couch 

Sunday August 19, 2018
10:00pm
5 minutes
November 1968
Brian Doyle

My best friend is a deer whisperer. She is pen pals with at least three of them and one doe with her faun. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a deer in a past life. She knows exactly how to breathe around them. She knows exactly what to hum. This month she asked one of them for protection and she granted it. She said her grace when she realized how  steadfast it all was. Nothing else in life is this sure. I hope when she writes them she tells them about me. Maybe they will love me by proxy. Maybe they will send their Forest Friends to keep me safe too.

“I’m on my way to Hammerhead” by Sasha at the airport


Saturday June 10, 2017
9:49pm
5 minutes
Overheard at Pearson

Takin’ the first flight to Hammerhead and no one’s gonna stop me. When I’m there, I’m gonna find a little shack in the woods by the river. Ever heard of the butterflies down there? Oh yeah, they are yellow and purple and they smell like candy. Pompom told me and Pompom never lies. He’s been down there, right? He’s seen ’em with his own eyes? I never get lonely, right, because I got seven brothers and sisters so I never had a second to myself between the ages of birth and seventeen when I got the heck outta there. Hammerhead’s population? Sixty four. And apparently the woman who runs the post office might be pregnant so that would bring the total population up to sixty five. Oh! And me, of course. Sixty six.

“the wild nature teaches us” by Julia on her living room floor


Friday March 31, 2017
10:25pm
5 minutes
Women Who Run With the Wolves
Clarissa Pinkola Estes


when my insides echo
when the only thing that can fill me is silence
when the forest begs for a closer look
I may know no home like the moss-covered stumps
like the nurse logs championing life
or the quiet stream carrying the whisper of souls reconciled without debt
we are taught so little about where we come from
some stories are passed down but are not built for us
we are reminded that one size does not fit all
even if the tongue doing the telling is loud

“the wild nature teaches us” by Sasha at her desk


Friday March 31, 2017
11:36am
5 minutes
Women Who Run With the Wolves
Clarissa Pinkola Estes


In the forest
you finally find
the rhythm of your breath
Old growth and
new life
It’s where you go when
you’re empty
or full
It’s where your truest
gaze finds
stillness
hope
relief

Your breath isn’t what you
imagined it would be
It’s deeper
wet with
stream water
dew
footprints

It’s early and you’ve
been here since
darkness
since before the
first glow of morning

Your wild nature
greets this day
You’re where
you’re
meant to be

“what he learned about fire” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Monday, October 19, 2015
9:49pm
5 minutes
Dramaturgical notes on My Ocean

What he learned about fire
standing beside his Papa in the thick of the birch and maple
fingers almost frozen from building up the kindling and scrunching the newspaper
what he learned is that it’s heat comes from the centre of the earth
it’s not the flint of the match striking against the small book
a bit of lint from Papa’s pocket
It’s the heat that inside all of us
waiting to escape
the kettle that sings on the stovetop
despite being empty
singing and singing and singing
until somebody listens
Standing beside his Papa in the stillness of the near naked trees
The brush starting to burn
reaching the kindling and the dried driftwood
always moving up up
Up
he is safe
He is the hand in his Papa’s hand
A spark jumps close to his left foot
A running shoe that once belonged to his cousin

“Inspired by the natural wonders” by Sasha on the pullout at the Angel’s Nest


Thursday January 1, 2015
11:21pm
5 minutes
from an Old Mout Cider pint glass
The trees are doing their belly dancing.
The ferns tickle the moss and the moss tries it’s best not to laugh.
The moon (the light) reflects off the dewy downy forest floor.
Quiet.
Quiet.
You turn away from me and I tuck my toes into yours.
The wood stove hums ancient wisdom of fire and following through.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the sliding door.
Simple.
My hair is longer than I realized, far down my back now.
You like it like this.
I look into my eyes, beyond my eyes and the forest waits and waits and waits.
You make a small sound that can only be described as a “coo”.

“I look at the sky recalling” by Sasha at her desk


Wednesday July 23, 2014
11:52am
5 minutes
A Memory Returns
Bobby Ferguson


I look at the sky recalling Jem’s face, beside mine, sharing one pillow like two chickens in the coop. His eyes are like the Big Dipper – sparkling and twinkling and telling stories without any words coming out. I go for walks in the forest by the old house, by the house with windows on all sides. Jem used to say he felt like he was in a fishbowl. “No one’s looking!” I’d say. We didn’t have neighbours. The only eyes on us were God’s.

“say I love your product” by Sasha at the CSI coffee pub


Wednesday February 19, 2014 at The CSI Coffee pub
11:50am
5 minutes
Dipped from Julia’s notebook

The forest breathed a sigh like spring and wrung her hands, squeezing out lilies of the valley and ferns. The grouse hopped to the stream and drank. Have you ever seen a bird drink? It’s phenomenal. Their beaks open, their strange tongues go in and out. The lake hummed at the tickle of the fish, the trout. The moss says, “pass the sangria?” Everyone laughs, except the grouse, who has fallen asleep near the rock shaped like a turtle.

I’m not sure about much these days, what with Allison’s memory loss, but I’m sure of all this and that feels good.